


colours

by isanghae



Category: Original Work
Genre: Experimental, Gen, idfk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 16:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isanghae/pseuds/isanghae
Summary: "colour is never just colour to her, cannot be described with these one word, lacking terms that never capture the way everything flows and sparks through people"





	colours

she has never seen blue.

blue, as a colour, does not exist in her world, simply because it is never just *blue*. it is the pulsing grey-tinged hue of a storm cloud on the horizon, swelling potent with the promise of destruction, or the steady flow of a river in the summer heat - a heady thing that practically dazzles, rife with the potential for the creation of all things as it is.

colour is never just colour to her, cannot be described with these one word, lacking terms that never capture the way everything flows and sparks through people - a headache-inducing assault on her sight that expresses far more than simply-

"Blue."

and the man opposite her nods, as if he could ever realise that he is the ink that would flow from her mother's favourite pen, the one her father would always pilfer for school reports and flourish around unnecessarily until her mother eventually made a grab for it and fell against him, laughing relentlessly. he will never see the liquid way his power runs through his veins, thick and dark and ready.

"And you're..." he glances at her hair, as if the unnatural hue of pink - a picture of a rose with the saturation turned up too high - has anything to do with the colours she sees.

"Can't see me own." it's a lie, but he nods, accepts it - accepts that her powers work in ways he won't understand, or maybe just that she's lying because she doesn't feel like sharing, he doesn't indicate one way or another - and offers a thank you and goodbye. her eyes flick down to her fingertips and follow the breeze of faded lavender that swirls like the blur of a photo taken with shaking hands and left in the sun for too long.

her hair is oversaturated and all her colours are a wash of light-faded brightness - things that could be more than they are but stand in the background, a soft sheen against all the strong glows, subtle things that reflect the quiet nature of passive powers. when she catches a glimpse of them in the mirror, or looks down at her thighs mid-bar crawl, her temples don't throb in the way they do when surrounded by the spectrum of fluorescence her friends carry around inside themselves.

sometimes, when people stop and go - "And you're..." - she'll retreat to a mirror in the ladies' room and stare at her hair a moment too long, take the shock of pink (a lightning strike in a cartoon world) and mentally thread it through her veins.

it looks strange.

it gives her a headache.


End file.
